


Richie Tozier Presents: Dirty Little Trashmouth

by am_amaterasu



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Dead Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier Comes Out, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie Tozier's Stand Up Act, Stanley Uris Is The Best, Supportive Losers Club (IT), The Kissing Bridge (IT), polaroids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23172814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_amaterasu/pseuds/am_amaterasu
Summary: An extract from this work:"I mean, it’s like throwing a dinner party, and just as you’re about to write the invitation list, someone comes up to you and says “Oh, you know who we should invite? A mullet-wearing stereotypical high school bully, an old creepy pharmacist with pedo tendencies, a pyromaniac carrying spray deodorant cans in his belt loops, a bunch of elderly Jewish conservatives, the retired witch that lives down the road, a 13-year-old future drug addict, and a leper, and a possessed little Pomeranian”, and by the end of the dinner party, they decide who the President is!"
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 31
Kudos: 156
Collections: ||My favorite fics||





	Richie Tozier Presents: Dirty Little Trashmouth

Richie Tozier Presents: Dirty Little Trashmouth

[The audience claps as the upbeat Intro music starts playing, and Richie appears on stage, waving a hand to the crowd, a warm smile on his face. He grabs the mic from the stand in the middle of the stage, playing with the wire in his free hand]  
  
Why, hello to you too, New York City! How are y’all doing this fine evening?

[Louder cheers, some wolf-whistles from the back rows.]

Look at you, all happy and cheerful. As if you don’t know this is gonna be a shit show and you just lost 30 bucks you could’ve spent on, like, food or drugs, or whatever it is that kids do these days.

Shame on all of you, guys! What would your mom think if she knew this is how you spend your money? Huh?

[The audience laughs, Richie gives them a cheeky smile.]

Honestly though, it’s so nice to be here. I almost thought no one would show up! I swear, I did!

And, now, for all of the newbies in the audience, allow me to introduce myself.

Hi, I’m Richie Tozier, also known as Trashmouth - that really is self-explanatory - and I’m famous for having puked on stage _after_ forgetting the lines to my own show and then going MIA for two full years! Crazy, huh?

[Someone cheers, someone gasps, quiet chuckles amongst the audience.]

And I know, I know what y’all are thinking: “Look at that massive forehead! How is that even human!? Is he a thumb? Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s a thumb.”

[Richie waits for the audience to stop laughing, grinning himself. The audience members in the front row notice the hand holding the mic is shaking ever so slightly as he switches to the left hand.]

I’m joking. I know you all think that anyways. At least, that’s my thought process every time my eyes accidentally land on my reflection through the mirror.

And yes, this is supposed to be my comeback show!

My agent begged me, _begged_ for me to actually do something, anything at all, to save my career.

But let’s be honest here, I didn’t _have_ a career to begin with. There’s nothing to be saved here.

I’m pretty sure all of you know, by now, that my previous shows weren’t exactly products of my own brain. And I don’t know if that choice was for the better or for worst, but hey, time to find out!

[Quiet chuckles from the audience, whistles from the back.]

And I want to formally apologise to all the women in the audience right now, and women at large, for the very sexist jokes I used to tell back in the days. I’m fully aware of the fact that my apologies now are just as useful as an unpaired sock, or an expired condom, but anyways, I felt like it was my duty to rectify those statements. I made a big mistake, said a bunch of stuff that I don’t even believe in, and am truly sorry for that.

[Loud cheers, audience clapping for a full half a minute, Richie’s smile softens.]

Now, as I said, this is supposed to be my big comeback show, here at Radio City, literally the best fucking venue one could ever wish for, and a Netflix troupe taping this show!

Isn’t that the fucking dream?

Well, I’m sorry for you guys, but this is in no way a comeback show. I’ll probably be banned from life after this, could very realistically lose my career once and for all, but - it is what it is, folks.

[Confused laughter amongst the crowd.]

Let me rephrase this better, so maybe I don’t sound like a total jerk.

When I wrote the script for this show, I wasn’t exactly thinking about my career, or the money, or any of you fuckers. [Playfully disappointed ‘aws’]

No sir, none of that!

I created this show for a handful of people, really. Six people, to be exact.

This show is all just for them, and maybe a bit for me too, and for my therapist, ya know, give the man a break. [Light laughter ensues]

And this is so much better than therapy, in a way.

You guys should know by now that humour is my coping mechanism, but here, _you_ pay _me_ to hear that. I have to _pay_ my therapist to tell him bad jokes about the train-wreck I fucking am. This is brilliant!

[Delighted chuckles from the crowd, someone cheers loudly from the balcony seats.]

So yeah, apologies if you’re offended by my incredible unprofessionalism, and brutal honesty, but this is probably never gonna be aired anyway, so, buckle down and enjoy the shit show, motherfuckers!

[Loud cheers, audience clapping. Richie is visibly nervous, but he’s glad no one caught the seriousness in his revelation. He struts up and down the stage, keeping his eyes on the audience.]

First off, I feel we should talk about the elephant _not_ in the room - again, not my fivehead, even though that’s the main elephant in any room I’m in - [Laughter and chuckles from the crowd]

which would be my two-year-long hiatus, after the whole ‘puking during the show’ fiasco.

Well, you _fat cunts_ , what happened was: I received a call that day, from an old friend I hadn’t seen in almost thirty fucking years.

Mike, the aforementioned old friend, called me and invited me back in that fuckhole, no man’s land, Well of Despair that is Derry.

Yeah, I’m from fucking _Derry, Maine_ guys! [Confused laughter, wolf-whistles.]

[Richie points towards the direction of the whistles] Do not fucking dare to cheer at that, you little shit! I swear to God, if you cheer to that hell-hole, I will personally walk down towards you and - No, this isn’t working.

I’m not a menacing person.

[The audience chuckles as Richie looks down at himself with a half resigned, half critical expression on his face.]

I literally have the upper body anatomy of an octopus and the legs of the Slender Man. I’m a Babadook, but like, a failed one who only ever managed to scare itself.

I’ll do nothing to you, but please don’t fucking cheer for Derry.

That place is, for lack of a better example, a little Florida in itself. No one would create it on purpose!

[Laughter amongst the crowd. Mike almost falls from his seat, Bill leans over his shoulder in a vain attempt at keeping him from falling.]

I mean, it’s like throwing a dinner party, and just as you’re about to write the invitation list, someone comes up to you and says “Oh, you know who we should invite? A mullet-wearing stereotypical high school bully, an old creepy pharmacist with pedo tendencies, a pyromaniac carrying spray deodorant cans in his belt loops, a bunch of elderly Jewish conservatives, the retired witch that lives down the road, a 13-year-old future drug addict, _and_ a leper, and a possessed little Pomeranian”, and by the end of the dinner party, they decide who the President is!

[Crowd laughing, Bill screams ‘Accurate!’ from his seat, Richie throws a wink his way, before he stops by the mic stand, resting the elbow on top of it in a casual manner.]

Anyways - what was I saying? Yeah, right, Mike. Good ol’ Mike.

He calls me up just before the famous puke-show, and asks me for this little reunion with all our childhood friends.

And what happened, New York, was:

[Richie crouches down at the edge of the stage, both elbows resting on his thighs, eyeing the people sitting in the first row on the right side of the theatre.]

You know those dreams where you feel like you’re falling? And just before crashing down from the fucking Empire State Building or whatever, you wake up with a start, covered in sweat and all confused?

[Audience laughter, some scream ‘Yeah!’ over the chuckles.]

Yeah. Fucking hate those, right?

Now, imagine if that metaphorical fall leads you right in the middle of thirty fucking years of repressed memories and deep childhood trauma, instead of a sweaty, panting mess on the mattress.

Kinda hard to turn on the other side and go back to sleep, _right_?

[Richie stands up once again, flailing a hand in a vague sort of motion; he shrugs in a matter-of-fact way, before continuing.]

Hence, the puking.

[Quiet chuckles from the crows, sympathetic ‘aws’.]

Exactly! [Richie flails his arms around in an exaggerated manner.]

So, you could say I wasn’t exactly at my _best_ by the end of that call.

And I briefly thought about changing my name and hide in, like, _Wakanda_ or something like that for the next forty years.

But then, all these pieces of repressed memories came crashing down on me, and I knew I had to go.

You see, as soon as I left Derry after graduation, I literally _forgot_ everything about my childhood and teen years. The therapist said it was a case of temporary amnesia due to the layered trauma of about 18 years of my life. I _didn’t remember_ Mike like I do now, and yet, I went back to Trauma Ville anyways.

And let me tell you, it was a fucking _ride_.

Once back in Satan’s version of Disneyland, a lot of things happened.

But we don’t have time to unpack all of the deeply fucked mind-travels that occurred. I’ll give you a summary, nevertheless, to the best of my abilities.

[Richie clears his throat, pretends to fix his non-existent bow-tie. Audience giggles in anticipation.]

My childhood friends and I reunite and have a catch-up night, meanwhile our high school bully - who had been locked up in a mental facility for killing his own dad about thirty years ago - decides it’s the perfect night to escape said mental facility; my childhood friends and I bump into him by accident while on a trip down memory lane, he nearly kills us all for some nostalgia shit, manages to stab one of us right through the chest, gets caught again, goes back into the facility, and we’re left to deal with the mess.

[Audience members gasp, some laugh confusedly, some just stare.]

Hence, the hiatus.

After a few months of head-strong denial, I decided I needed therapy.

And after our first session, my therapist booked one for _himself_.

Aren’t I a _fucking delight_ to be around these days.

[More laughter, some sympathetic ‘aws’ from the back.]

How could this be more complex and weird than it already is, you may ask?

Well, of course the fucker decided to escape and dress himself as a _fucking demonic clown_.

I mean, how fucking cliché can you be.

Seriously, even in high school, he wasn’t very creative with his insults.

And I mean, yeah I don’t want to get bullied _in general_ , but if I really _have_ to, at least lay some good insults on me.

And also, how very bold of him to try and use the clown costume to scare _me._

I’m a real-life fucking clown, my man.

He could’ve just turn a mirror on me and I would’ve screamed louder, let me tell ya.

[Audience laugh, someone screams ‘BIG MOOD!” from the middle rows.]

Alright, alright, enough with the clown competition.

I win, hands down, it’s pointless.

Cancel all the killer and non-killer clowns that ever existed, I don’t care, I’m the ultimate clown.

From the powers given to me by _myself_ , I declare the winner of the Ultimate Competition of ‘Bitch Be Clowning’ to be Richard Fucking Tozier.

Bu-huh, John Wayne Gacy. Buh-fucking-huh.

[Audience keeps laughing, Richie’s smiles softens again, the whole audience senses the seriousness coming off of his stance.]

Alright guys, shit’s gonna get deep real fast right now. So, if you’re just here for the cheap jokes, cover your ears for the next hour or so. I won’t be mad if you do, I promise.

As I mentioned before, I wrote this show specifically for six people.

It was supposed to be an homage for having found my family again, thanking them for putting up with little 12-year-old Richie, and for willingly deciding to put up with 40-year-old Richie without being blackmailed or otherwise solicited.

[Soft chuckles, Richie gives a smile.]

There used to be seven of us, the Lucky Seven.

We named ourselves the ‘Losers Club’, because we were the outcasts in a town with the highest rates of children being murdered on the daily and more serial killers than Keith Morrison could ever dream of.

We found each other and stuck to one another like glue, ‘cause losers stick together.

[Richie smiles fondly towards the middle row, where he knows the other five Losers are sitting.]

They were my family, and I loved every single one of them to death.

No, I mean it.

I was the lankiest little fuckhead to ever walk the Earth, and had no upper body strength - still don’t, to be fair - yet I would’ve thrown hands with literally anyone who touched my Losers.

[Loud ‘aws’ from the crowd]

The Losers Club consisted of myself, the aforementioned Mickey-Mike, Bill, Beverly, Ben, Eddie and Stan.

Five of them are sitting here tonight, and they’re hearing this for the very first time!

I asked them if they would sue me had I ever used them as source material for one of my shows.

They all said yes. They love me very much, and deeply care about my career.

I’d like to introduce you guys to the members of the Losers Club, if you’ll let me.

[Audience cheers, clapping loudly as encouragement. Richie has a wide smile on his face. He taps on the remote, and moves to stand on the side of the big screen at the back of the stage.]

[A photo collage of Mike appears on the screen, from age 11 to age 40.]

This is my good pal, Mike.

You may think his full name is Michael, and that’s where you’d be wrong.

His legal name is Micycle, and if he tells you that’s just ‘one of my stupid made-up nicknames’, then he’s absolutely lying.

[Audience laughter, Mike shakes his head fondly from the middle row. Richie looks up at the collage, smiling bright.]

Mike has always been the kindest, most gentle of us all. And let me tell you, when you have to deal with the constant racism and ostracism that coats the whole town you live in for your entire life, and you’re still _nice_ to people, you’re a fucking Saint.

[Loud claps and cheers, some guys from at the back start chanting ‘Mike, Mike, Mike!’. Richie joins in, causing a whole lot of giggle to erupt in the crowd.]

And you know what? He has one of the biggest fucking brain I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

So, it’s triple unfair. He gets to be kind, clever, _and_ hot as fuck. The nerve of this guy.

[Audience chuckles and cheers in agreement. Mike facepalms, causing Bill to bark a loud laugh, choking on his drink.]

When we were 11, I used to call him Homeschool, because I was a little shit and Micycle helped his grandpa out in the farm and studied at home.

Bear in mind, there was no malice whatsoever coming from me, I was just a pile of ‘yo mama’ jokes and poor life choices concentrated into one weird octopi body.

[Chuckles from the audience, enamoured ‘aws’ as soon as Richie taps the remote and it shows an old Polaroid of 12-year-old Mike carrying Richie on his back, both laughing happily, Mike giving a thumbs up to the camera. In the background, the Losers recognise the woods right above the Clubhouse.]

[Richie looks at the picture with a somewhat nostalgic expression. Mike, still sitting in the crowd, has a shocked expression on his face, mouth covered with one hand, as soon as he sees the picture.]

Now, Mickey and I share lots and lots of good memories along with the others, but I decided I’d introduce the Losers to all of you through some of the most private moments I had with each one of them.

So, the story behind this Polaroid dates back to mid-July of 1989. Mike, Ben and I had set to meet up at our hideout spot in the woods, and little 12-year-old Richie slipped on his Vans, wore the first Hawaiian shirt and cargos from his desk chair, grabbed his bike and raced towards the woods without a care in his little world.

Little Richie was so lost in his happy thoughts about seeing his friends again, that he didn’t notice the Big Bullies’ Car approaching from behind, and neither did he hear the sadistic laughter coming from said car until it was too late to change route.

The biggest bully screams a long list of slurs my way - which was routine procedure by that point - and _then_ decides to throw his half smoked cigarette at me, speeding away straight after.

Instead of flying above my face, as I hoped, the cigarette somehow ended in the collar of my shirt, grazed over my stomach, and made me lose the control of the bike.

So, little Richie fell down from his bike, and in a vain attempt to save his face from hitting the ground, twisted his body just so - and sprained his fucking ankle.

[Little gasps from the audience, along with empathetic ‘aws’. Richie playfully shakes his head in mock self-pity.]

And this is where Mickey-Mike, in true superhero fashion, gets worried about my absence, bikes all the way from the woods to the bridge where the fall happened, and finds little Richie sobbing in a wild mix of pain, shame and frustration.

And, instead of ridiculing the crap out of me, like I expected - because I was taught that ‘real men don’t cry’ - he scooped me up, hugged me real tight, and managed to calm me down enough so that my shoulders wouldn’t be shaking no more.

And _then_ , he made me sit in the basket at the front of his bike, pedalled all the way down to our hideout in the woods, and upon realising I could not, for the life of me, walk more than two steps without falling down face first, he made me climb on his back and insisted on carrying me around for the whole day, so that I wouldn’t hurt my ankle any further.

[Very endeared ‘aws’ fill the room, Richie gently shakes his head at the picture.]

And I need you to understand, guys, Mike was pure muscles before any of us really hit puberty - he worked at a _farm_ , for Christ’s sake!

He was like, the definition of masculinity, and I was so fucking scared of what he may think of me, laying on the ground, a hole burnt into my Hawaiian shirt from the cigarette, ankle sprained and fat tears rolling down my eyes - complete with fogged up glasses.

And he spent a whole half an hour saying that there was nothing wrong with me crying, that I should never hide from him in times like these because we were _friends_ , and friends are always there for each other, no matter what.

I think I cried the whole of Mississippi on his shoulders that day.

[Wet laughter comes from the audience, someone sniffles audibly. Richie tries to sneakily run a hand over his face, then shakes his head and turns his whole body towards the crowd.]

For someone who suffered so much in his life, Mike has always been the representation of resilience, and strength. Not physical, but deep within. Give it up for Mike Hanlon, guys!

[Loud cheers erupt in the theatre, the whole crowd clapping hard. Bill subtly hands mike a tissue, and Mike takes it without a word. He’s deeply moved, and smiles brightly at Richie.]

[Richie smiles one last time at the picture, before tapping the remote again. On the screen, a photo collage of Ben appears, again, from age 11 to age 40.]

This one, my dudes, is our little Benjamin. Ben fucking Hanscom.

[Some audience members cheer in recognition.]

Yes, you may know him for being this big-ass world-renowned architect.

But back in the days, I knew him as Haystack. Again, I was a little shit.

Ben was the sweetest, shyest little boy you could ever have the pleasure to meet.

I honestly still don’t know how exactly he managed to stand me, because I was a pain in the ass _on a good day._

[Cheerful laughter from the audience, the Losers all nod to each other. Richie smiles at the crowd, huffing a little chuckle. He taps the remote again, and it shows another Polaroid of 13-year-old Richie holding a vinyl in his hands, eyes wide behind his glasses; in front of him, 12-year-old Ben is visibly embarrassed, a hand scratching the back of his neck, but he’s smiling at Richie, showing his dimples.]

This right there, that’s the first time Ben Hanscom broke me.

The second time was at the reunion dinner, when I saw all of his fifty-seven abs.

Like, managed to shut me up for more than two minutes consecutively.

[More giggles from the crowd, together with the endeared ‘aws’ upon seeing the picture on the screen. Ben is trying to slide down in his seat, clearly embarrassed, hands covering up his face to hide his blushing.]

Now, I don’t want to dig too deep into the topic, but, my parents weren’t really _present_ in my life. They worked a lot, most of the times out of town, so I would be alone for weeks at a time. And as a result, I never got to celebrate my birthday properly.

This same conversation came up once amongst us Losers, and Ben - the sweet little fucker - planned a _surprise party_ for me that same year. He was hell-bent on making sure I had a proper birthday party. Like, he made it his mission. He took it as a personal attack, the fact that my parents couldn’t even bother remembering that I existed for most of my life.

You guys - Ben built a fucking _Clubhouse_ with his bare hands at age 11 for us to safely play around and enjoy the summer bliss without any unnecessary encounters with our favourite high school bullies. That’s how _pure_ he is. I hate him so much.

[Audience members chuckle loudly, cheers rise.]

And, as if that wasn’t enough to make 13-year-old Richie an emotional little bitch, he diligently saved up his money and got me a David Bowie vinyl as a present.

I’ll let that sink in for a second.

As you can see from the picture, my reaction was a full body short-circuit.

[Laughter and cheers rise amongst the crowd, Beverly gently ruffles Ben’s hair.]

Because of my short-circuit, Ben started getting, like, anxious about the whole thing, and started _apologising_.

I don’t know if you guys understand how fucking _adorable_ that was.

He said something like “Well, you said you never really celebrated your birthday, and I thought that maybe we could celebrate with you here, in the Clubhouse. It’s okay if you don’t want to, I mean, it was probably very rude of me to spring that on you like this” and other things and I was having a really hard time keeping in the tears of pure _joy_ that built up in my eyes.

The aftermath of that was little Richie quite literally throwing himself at Ben in a very very tight hug, whispering a string of “Thank you thank you thank you thank you” right into his ear.

To this day, that was the best birthday party I ever had in my entire life.

In that moment, as I was blowing on the candles of the cake the Losers made for me, trying not to have a breakdown from the whirlwind of emotions that were trying to break free from my ribcage, I thought “Wow, this is what having a family feels like.”

I felt loved and appreciated and cared for, and that’s because little Ben Handsome over there decided that little 13-year-old, pain in the ass, Richie Trashmouth Tozier deserved to have a nice birthday party.

Ben Hanscom is every single Brazilian soccer player wrapped up into one person, and still _blushes_ if you pay him even the slightest of compliments.

Give it up for Ben Hanscom, everyone!

[Loud cheers and clapping from the audience, some wolf-whistles from the balcony seats. Ben is obviously blushing, and his eyes are suspiciously glassy. He looks at Richie in awe and adoration. Bev exchanges a knowing look with Mike.]

[Richie’s smile is wider this time around, as he taps the remote for the third time. A photo collage of Bill pops up, from age 11 to age 40. This time, the crowd cheers immediately, recognising Bill almost on the spot. Bill is trying very hard not to combust on the spot.]

If you recognised Bill immediately, you win nothing.

And you know why? Because Bill stopped growing in fucking eight grade.

I’m not even kidding, he’s like a little Leprechaun, ginger hair and all.

He also punched me in the face when we were kids. He’s to blame for the disaster that went down over here [Richie gestures to his head with a finger].

Yes, you heard me. William fucking Denbrough, best-selling author that still doesn’t know how to write a good ending for any of his novels, literally the son-in-law every mother dreams of, punched little Richie right in the face, despite me wearing big-ass glasses that could very easily break and fuck my eyes once and for all.

[Loud gasps and chuckles rise from the crowd. Bill’s ears are angry red and it looks like he’s not breathing.]

But, to be fair, it was totally called for.

I feel like I’ve said that a hundred times already, but Young Richie was a little bastard.

Honestly, anyone who’ve met me from age 10 to age 40 deserves to punch me in the face for moral compensation. I’m not even kidding, I’d punch me too, but my therapist says we should work on the self-loathing in a healthy way, so he made me swear I wouldn’t punch me in the face.

And that’s adult life for you, my children.

[Audience chuckles delightedly. Richie smiles unapologetically at them, and takes a sip from the water bottle, leaving it on the stool. He taps the remote, and a candid of 10-year-old Richie and Bill pops up. In the picture, Richie is leaning against a stonewall, bony knees scraped and scratched, face bowed down, with his glasses dangerously hanging on the tip of his nose. Bill is crouched in front of him, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed in concentration, as he ties Richie’s left shoe.]

[Richie visibly sniffles while looking at the picture, a crooked smile forcing its way on his face.]

God, seems like yesterday.

This was taken in Bill’s backyard, we were about 10 years old at the time.

Fun-fact about Richie Tozier is, I learned how to tie my shoes around the same time this picture was taken. Big Bill taught me.

[The audience lets out a drawn-out ‘aw’ at that, and Richie chuckles under his breath.]

I was such a disaster of a person. I’m like 99.9% sure I would’ve died in the dumbest way possible if it weren’t for the Losers.

Bill was the undiscussed leader of the Losers Club, he always had the charm, the little shit.

And he was a big brother figure for me, growing up. That’s why I called him Big Bill most of the times. Billiam when I wanted to be annoying. Well, _overly_ annoying.

Big Bill knew I couldn’t tie my shoes, simply because no one ever told me how to in my house - absent parents and whatnot - and also, I was way too dumb to figure it out on my own.

I was a mess, guys, bear with me.

So, Bill and I were playing in the backyard, and I kept tripping all over myself because the damn shoelaces kept getting stuck in the _least favourable moments_ , and my knees were starting to look like meatballs. Not the good Ikea ones, the raw ones that you buy at the butcher to cook at _home._

And what does Big Bill decide to do? He bows down in front of me, and ties my shoes with the most attentive and careful movements. And he does it slow enough for me to actually understand the logistics of it.

When he’s done, he smiles up at me with this one-dimpled half smile, and says “So you don’t hit your head while we play!”

He chose to do it just as Mrs. Denbrough was walking by the open backdoor, Polaroid ready at hand.

So yeah, Billiam might have punched me in the face when we were kids, and he might have had the worst case of stutter ever known to mankind, but he also made sure I knew how to tie my shoes, without making me feel like a total idiot for _not_ being able to do it myself already.

Can we have a big cheer for Big Bill, everyone?

[Audience cheer loudly, and claps ever louder. Bill is crying into his fist, Mike rubs a soothing hand over his shoulder.]

[Richie taps the remote, and a photo collage of Beverly pops up, from age 12 to age 40.]

I want you all to be jealous of me now, folks, because yes, I’m best friends with the one and only Beverly fucking Marsh!

[The audience cheers wildly, people shout and stomp their feet in time with their claps. Beverly smirks from her spot, and Ben is looking at her like she’s a goddess - which, she is.]

Beverly Marsh was the sister I never had, and never knew I needed.

She cared after us Losers in a way that I couldn’t even begin to describe. She’s the best in the world and should be named Empress of the whole cosmos, like, _immediately_.

[Again, the audience cheers loudly, ground shaking with the sheer force of it. Richie _beams_ at them. He looks over to the middle row, locking eyes with Beverly for a second, and his shoulders relax immediately, reciprocating the fond glance she’s sending his way. He taps the remote, and it shows a Polaroid of 16-year-old Richie and Beverly. In the picture, they’re clearly in a school gym, festooned for what seems to be a Winter Ball. Richie is clad in a light blue suit and white shirt, while Beverly looks stunning in an emerald green dress. They’re dancing together, and both seem to be laughing happily, cheeks red and eyes shining. Richie’s eyes are a bit glistening as he looks at the picture, before turning towards the crowd.]

That, my children, is a picture of mom and dad at their Winter Ball.

[The audience chuckles, Beverly lets out a loud laugh, along with the other Losers. Eddie just shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest, but he’s visibly fighting a smile.]

I was 16 years old, proud owner of a beat up, second-hand, once bright red pick-up, didn’t know what a haircut was and I was lankier than ever. Truly, a sex symbol.

And Beverly was always the best-looking living thing on the planet, so I couldn’t even find it in myself to feel bad about it. She was just born to be a Queen, we’re just gonna have to deal with it.

And that’s the thing, you guys.

Growing up with Beverly Marsh as best friend not only taught me to love and respect women, but also to fear them.

Especially if you try to tickle them. They will break your fingers and they won’t be the least bit sorry about it.

[Audience cackles loudly, Beverly gives Richie a smug smile, while Ben laughs at the memory.]

Story is, the Winter Ball was slowly approaching, and I dreaded it _so fucking much_.

Guys, I’ve always been undatable, from the beginning till right about now. Literally, I was disgusting from the inside out, and I knew the Winter Ball was just gonna be a reminder of that.

Then, the Losers decided we’d all go as a group, and still enjoy the whole event, because fuck everyone else, we had each other and that was all that mattered.

And I got excited for the damn thing!

So, as every teenage guy with no taste in clothing whatsoever, I asked my only friend with a fashion sense - the mighty Bev - what I should’ve worn for the Ball on our way out of Biology Class.

As if one cue, Greta Bowers - an _incredibly_ sloppy bitch - snickered at us and told me, in the middle of the damn corridor, that I should’ve just stayed home, because no one needed the Ball to be ruined by my presence and no girl would’ve danced with me anyway.

In true Trashmouth fashion, I answered with something along the lines of “And you smell like freshly defecated piles of shit”, laughed it off and walked the other way.

And admittedly, I died a little inside when she said that, because I knew that to be true.

No one in their right state of mind would’ve enjoyed my presence anywhere, and no one would’ve willingly offered to dance with me.

No one, but my only Goddess, Beverly Marsh.

She threatened to castrate me if I didn’t show up, and I really cared about the well-being of my huge, magnificent dick.

Also, it’s Beverly. You really don’t want to go against her will, like, ever in life.

So, I silently dreaded the day of the Winter Ball even more than before, but pretended to be excited in front of the others, because I didn’t want to be the Debbie Downer of the situation.

On that evening, I dressed in the suit Beverly had carefully picked up for me after one full afternoon of rummaging through my closet, got into my slowly dying pick-up, drove to school, and spent a solid fifteen minutes crying in religious silence with my hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hurt, alone, in the parking lot.

[Audience members gasp, letting out sad little “ohws”.]

Beverly showed up pretty much immediately, dried my tears, complimented my looks for the first time in forever - which, thanks, Bev. It was the ego boost of a lifetime. And yeah, she basically dragged me in, we chatted with the others, had a pretty chill time, and as soon as the dances started, she made a point of shouting _really loudly_ “Richie Tozier! Would you do me the honour of your first dance?”

[The audience lets out deeply endeared ‘aws’, and Richie doesn’t even hide how deeply affected he is while telling this story, smiling wide as he looks at the picture.]

She’s my hero.

And you know what else, children?

Beverly Marsh was the coolest girl to ever exist, and yet decided to spend her summers with a bunch of self-proclaimed Losers, and made us all _proud_ of wearing that title.

She fucking owned it right from the start.

Let’s hear it for my only woman, Beverly Marsh, everyone!

[The crowd claps frantically, cheers getting louder and louder. Someone from the balcony shouts ‘BEVERLY MARSH FOR PRESIDENT!’, causing a whole new wave of approving shouts.

Beverly shakes her head fondly, eyes shiny with happy tears. She holds Ben’s hand tightly, and he answers with a gentle squeeze.]

[Richie bounces nervously on his feet, hesitating for a moment, before he taps the remote again. A collage of Eddie pops up, from age 10 to age 40. If anyone sees the way Richie’s hand shakes holding the mic, they don’t point it out.]

Of all the Losers shown and made fun of so far, this one right here is the most likely to sue me for using his name and image in this Special. So, enjoy this while it lasts, chaps!

[The audience buzzes with laughter, the Losers being the loudest ones, while Eddie wears his grumpy face expression, arms tightly crossed on his chest.]

Oh man, how do I even start with this one...

[Richie sighs, puts a hand on his hip and shakes his head in mock-exasperation, even though his eyes are gentle and affectionate. Eddie quirks an eyebrow, very on edge about Richie’s bit on him.]

This one is Eddie, or Eds, or Eddie Spaghetti, or Eduardo Spaghuardo.

He loves the nicknames I gave him.

[Richie starts laughing, and the audience follows right after.]

I’m totally lying. He hates every single one of them! Literally! I spent hours on end trying to find the perfect nickname for that little fucker and he always went - [He pitches his voice really high, almost a squeal, in his possibly worst impression of Eddie’s voice] - “Don’t call me that, you fuckwad!”

And I, being the little shit you all know I was by now, totally went out of my way to find the most absurd nickname to fit our personal Dr. K.

[The audience giggles in delight. Eddie rolls his eyes at Richie, and Beverly pokes him in his side, trying to get him to break and crack even the faintest of smiles.]

The best way to describe young Eddie is a 3-foot-nothing, 8 pounds soaking wet, little ball of anxiety and antihistaminic with a vernacular full of swear words that would make Satan himself crawl into a hole in shame, _and_ a fanny pack.

I’m not kidding. This little thing right here used to go out with a fanny pack containing a whole fucking drug store, and he didn’t even need those pills!

[The audience laughs more openly now. Richie’s hands are still shaking and he’s sweating like a bull. He’s growing more and more agitated, but he holds on tight. It’s now or never.]

I shit you not, from age 11 up until, like, yesterday, I made sure to remind him how good I fucked his mom _at least_ five times per day.

[The audience laughs even more, and Richie can’t help the small chuckle that leaves his mouth. Bill chokes on his drink. _Again_.]

Did I mention that I was a little shit? Because I fucking _was_.

This poor dude only wanted to enjoy his summer, and instead got stuck having me as a friend.

That must be the epitome of injustice, you guys.

[Richie smiles again, softer, and peeks at the middle row through his lashes and stray curls that fall on his face. He can’t see Eddie, but he _feels_ the eye-rolls nonetheless.]

If you guys ever need a picture to define the word ‘cute’, look at those Polaroids right here and frame ‘em in your brain. Burn them into your fucking retinas. Build an altar in you basement and pray that he doesn’t ever catch you calling him cute, because that boy is fire and _will_ bite you real hard.

Trust me on that.

I have his dental print on my shoulder to prove it.

[The audience keeps laughing, and Eddie - despite his best intentions - does give in and cracks a half smile, looking up at Richie with his trademark deeply-exhausted-but-still-fond glare.]

[Richie clears his throat once, then presses his thumb on the remote, fingers clutching tightly at it, still shaky.

The picture is a candid of 16-year-old Richie and Eddie. They’re sharing the hammock in the Clubhouse, visibly cramped in but surprisingly comfortable, laying down facing each other.

Eddie has a leg carelessly thrown over Richie’s own, jeans against red _short_ shorts, while the other is bent at the knee and drawn up almost to his chest. He is holding a tape in his hands, reading the scratched label on its back and cracking a soft smile. Richie is visibly flushed; there’s an open comic book resting on his chest, one hand lays flat on top of it, while the other arm is stretched along his side, hand gently resting on Eddie’s ankle, just shy of touching it.]

[Richie stares at the picture for a beat longer than he should, but quickly recovers. The shakes in his hands aren’t as bad, but his voice still cracks a little with emotion.]

Eddie was - and still is, mind you - a germaphobe and a raging hypochondriac.

If you tried to go for a handshake, he would lecture you about how many bacteria can be found on human skin and how deeply unsanitary it is to shake hands and could list about 150 different diseases spread through a fucking handshake, and that’s just for handshakes!

[The audience chuckles, Mike howls a laugh and Bill is very clearly not going to enjoy his drinks anytime soon. Richie chuckles along, scratching the back of his neck with his hand.]

My point being: Eddie absolutely despised all sorts of physical contact, but was so determined to get my ass out of that dope-ass hammock that he was willing to inhale my germs and literally push his feet in my fucking face, and didn’t even use his inhaler half the time!

[The audience is split between enamoured ‘aws’ and light-hearted giggles. Bev sends Eddie a knowing glance, and he mutters under his breath something resembling a string of curse words.]

The night that picture was taken, it was the day after Eddie’s birthday.

His mother was quite a piece of art - that’s all I’m gonna say about it, and managed to keep him holed up in his house the day of his _goddamn_ birthday, and it’s fair to say I wasn’t happy with it.

So, the day after, he managed to sneak out - yes, cute little Eddie wasn’t as innocent as he looks like, my dudes - and we spent the whole afternoon in the Clubhouse with the other Losers, to make up for the delayed celebration.

Now, I’ve never been good at, like, expressing my emotions in a way that didn’t include ten ‘yo mama’ jokes a minute, and I was even worst at reading the room to know when to shut up.

Little 3-foot-nothing Eddie, over here, came up with a solution.

“Beep beep Richie.”

That’s right. I would rant about how good it felt fucking his mom and how I only had eyes for her, and he would roll his eyes and go “Beep beep, asshole!”

At that stage, our conversations were mainly consisting of “I fucked your mom” jokes, incredibly saucy comebacks from his part, and then I got beeped.

And it _stuck_.

One sure thing about little Eds, is that he gives as good as he gets. So, he always had a witty comeback to each and every one of my terrible jokes, and I fucking _lived_ for it.

Anyways, that night at the Clubhouse, as Eddie kept kicking my glasses off my face with his feet, and kept trying to push my ass out of the hammock and onto the fucking ground, I gave Eddie a birthday present I made just for him.

We were both really into music, and one of my hobbies back in the days was making mixtapes with all my favourite songs, all for different occasions.

I used to name them with the weirdest fucking names, too.

So, I decided to make one for Eddie as a present.

As I mentioned before, our friendship was made of childish sexual jokes and insults and rants about bacteria and diseases, but Eddie has always been one of my favourite people in the world, I just didn’t know how to put that together in a sentence that vaguely sounded English _enough_.

Thus, I resorted to music.

[Richie looks back at the picture, a somewhat longing sparkle shining in his eyes for a brief second, before he schooled his looks into a cheerful smile, yet nostalgic.]

The little turd insisted that he wanted to listen to it right that second, but Ben had brought his stereo back home, and we had nothing to plug the tape in. Except, of course, the radio system in my pick-up. And of course Eddie knew that.

So, the little fucker gave me the sad puppy eyes until I caved in - very soon, if any of you were wondering. He was way too good at the sad puppy face, and that truly was a dick move on his part.

[The audience laughs and coos at Richie, who playfully rolls his eyes at them, before smiling wide.]

I drove us to the hill overlooking the whole town, right by the Quarry.

There wasn’t one cloud in the sky, the stars were shining so bright in our faces, everything was so quiet and peaceful, the only sound was Axl Rose’s voice singing ‘Patience’ over the speakers of the car, volume turned down a notch so that it just served as background.

A rare moment of calmness in the Murder Capital of Motherfuck America.

And, of course, I had to ruin the moment.

[The audience laughs, cheerful. Eddie is shaking his head, chuckling at the memory.]

I swear, it wasn’t even planned! It just felt so nice and quiet and do I look like someone who exudes calmness and reason!? I fucking don’t!

So, I just started talking. I wouldn’t even know about what, to be honest, but as history suggests, it might have been a poem about Mrs. K’s genitalia.

And Eddie, bless him, slowly turns his head to me from the passenger seat, and calls my name.

I stop, bubbling out a “What is it, Spaghetti Head?”

And I shit you not, he smiles up at me, the faintest of smiles, pins me down with his big Bambi eyes, and whispers to me, voice soft like velvet “Beep fucking beep, dipshit.”

And I fucking _pouted_ , like a little child who knows his mom won’t get him the McDonald’s Happy Meal, doesn’t matter how nicely he asks or how loud he cries.

I goddamn fucking pouted, and Eddie laughed at my face, put his feet on the dashboard, and just kept quiet, ears trained on the mixtape.

He broke the record of the ‘Keeping Richie Silent’ Competition - yes, these assholes had _bets_ on it - made me shut my mouth for the whole fucking mixtape.

And it was a two-hour-long one.

That’s a God amongst men, my dear children.

Let’s get a big fucking cheer for Eddie, folks!

[The audience goes wild once again, clapping wildly and whistling in delight. Richie waits for them to calm down once again, and his face takes on a certain edge. Not quite sad, not quite relaxed.]

Eddie… Eddie is the bravest man I’ve ever met in my entire life.

Always was the bravest of us all, always has been.

[The audience keeps silent, and Richie hangs his head low for a moment. When he looks back at the crowd, he has a crooked smirk on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He walks back to the stool, leans down against it for a second, before sitting down, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched forwards, foot planted on the ground.]

He saved my life.

I mean it quite literally here, not just the metaphorical way.

When we had our Losers Club reunion, and got chased down by that psycho clown bastard, I was about to get stabbed. He pushed me out of the way and got a knife stuck in his chest.

I saw the knife going through and through.

I thought I lost him.

[Some of the audience members gasp in shock, some grimace sympathetically at the image just described by Richie. He’s not looking up at them anymore, stares down at his feet for a second, then turns sideways to look at the old Polaroid behind him. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, no hint of humour in his voice, just a deep sense of adoration and wonder.]

Scared to shake hands with anyone, yet he spared no thoughts about getting a knife stuck in his chest to save me. The bravest little boy I’ve ever known.

[The audience lets out these soft ‘aws’, endeared and sad in equal measure. The Losers are just staring at Richie, having never seen him quite this opened about the whole clown incident.]

And despite that, I was still a fucking coward.

[Confused murmurs rise at Richie’s last statement. Eddie frowns at Richie, taken aback. Richie ignores them all, shifts sideways on the stool, and circles his thumb around the remote, not pressing the button yet.]

I wrote this special for six people, but only five of them are here tonight.

One of ours… One of us is gone, left a hole we’ll never be able to fill again.

[The audience gives whispered ‘ohws’, and the sadness in Richie’s eyes is clear for anyone to see. He brushes the back of his hand under his glasses and over his eyes, before pressing the button on the remote. On the screen, a photo collage of Stan appears, from age 4 to age 40. The Losers don’t need to guess that the pictures of Stanley between 18 and 40 were gently given by Patty.]

This here, is Stanley Uris.

I used to call him Stan the Man.

He was… extraordinary, in everything and anything.

He was my hero, my very best friend.

[Richie’s voice cracks audibly, and his hand almost loses its grip on the microphone. He readjusts his hold on the mic, inhaling sharply, and pressing his eyes shut for a second.

He slouches his shoulders a bit, elbows resting on his thigh, and looks at the crowd once again, eyes shimmering, soft and loving.]

Stan was the best.

There was nothing that little Jew couldn’t do. He was the true mama-hen of the Losers Club, and cared about each and every single one of us with all his heart.

There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t miss my little Jewish _tsipór_.

[Richie presses his lips together, visibly shaken, and takes a deep breath through his nose. The Losers are all silently crying. Amongst the audience, someone is shedding a few tears as well.

Richie taps on the remote, eyes trained on the screen.

There’s two Polaroids put side by side on the screen. In the first one, 5-year-old Richie is draped over Stan’s lap, all four limbs wrapped tightly around the boy, a toothy grin on full display, matched by a slightly less cheeky one from Stan himself, as they fondly look at each other, with Stan’s arms securely tugging Richie close.

In the second picture, the pose is the same, but Richie and Stan are 18 years old then, dressed in their graduation gowns - Richie’s all wrinkled and half opened, Stan’s impeccable as usual. The fondness in their glance is just as strong as it looked in the first picture.]

[The audience draws out a soft ‘aw’, and Richie has a half-smile on his face, as his eyes scan the two pictures. He’s shaking again, and has to clear his throat twice before he attempts to speak again.]

The first picture… We were around five years old.

Stan and I knew each other from the synagogue. His father, Uris Senior, was the rabbi of the town, and my mother tried to raise me as a sweet Jewish boy. Didn’t work that well.

[The audience chuckles, but it’s quieter than any of the other ones before. The atmosphere is charged with something delicate, deeper. No one wants to break it.]

I was too gangly and my laughter was too annoying and my voice too shrill.

That day in the kindergarten, everyone was playing basket, and I wasn’t invited to join in, because I was a ‘loser’.

So, I sulked my way over to the big oak tree, and sat there, trying to sneak glances at the other kids.

And then, Stan walked over and sat next to me.

I asked him why he sat next to _me_ , of all people.

He said “Losers stick together!” And smiled up at me, handing me his cup of grapes to share.

[Endeared ‘aws’ come from the crowd. The Losers all look at each other, tears streaming down their faces. Bill is resting his head on Mike’s shoulder, sobbing silently in his shirt.]

[Richie’s smile is wobbly at best, but this time, his eyes light up with it.]

By the end of the day, we were inseparable. I’m not kidding, I would not let go of him.

My mother joked about needing a surgery to get me off of Stan’s lap.

[Richie chuckles lightly, and the crowd follows, shyly still.]

When Stan’s mother came along, she was so happy we became friends, that she decided to take approximately a thousand pictures, to capture the moment.

I’ve never been more grateful about Mrs. Uris’ passion for taking pictures of everything and anything at any given time.

Then I blinked, and we were graduating.

Stan, impeccable as usual, smiling up at me as I walked up the stage, always the proud mama.

[Another round of faint chuckles, wet smiles gracing each and every face in the audience.]

His parents came up to us immediately, proud of us both.

We chatted and shared our dreams for our college years, Stan was adamant about refusing to be my roommate ever in life, and I laughed aloud and threaten to move every piece of furniture in his room by 0.2 inches when least expected.

And then Mrs. Uris decided to ‘capture the moment’, and told us to smile at the camera.

Stan and I looked at each other for a _millisecond_ , and immediately posed just like that day, thirteen years back.

Staniel always gave the best hugs.

[Richie’s voice cracks again, and he bites down on his lower lip, eyes cast down to his feet, once again. The Losers are all holding hands with one another, grasping tightly to ground each other.]

Stan took his own life, a few days before the Losers Club reunion.

[The gasps are louder amongst the crowd now, eyes wide in shock.]

He took his own life, and I wasn’t there for him.

I promised him we would always stick together, and then I _forgot_.

I don’t know what he was like in his adult years, but I can safely guess he was just the same as when he was a kid: _the best._

The same curly-haired, bird-loving, genuine little boy that cursed and mic-dropped at his own bar-mitzvah, wise beyond his age, smile timeless and warming like anything else in the world.

And, first of all, my best friend.

[Richie takes a pause, while the audience quietly murmur their endearment, between the tears.

He stands up, chin tucked towards the screen, tears threatening to spill from his red eyes.]

He left us a letter, before that.

Made a point about specifying it was _not_ a suicide note, in true Staniel the Maniel fashion.

[The Losers let out quiet chuckles at that. They’re still holding hands with each other.]

And it wasn’t, it really wasn’t. It was a promise.

One last promise he asked of us, from now on, till the end of time.

And it stuck to me, for a number of reasons.

Namely, because Stan has always been great at getting the best out of all of us.

When Stan was around, Bill didn’t stutter as much, Ben didn’t feel as self-conscious about his looks, Mike didn’t go as tense about walking around town, Beverly didn’t feel wrong about being the only woman amongst men, Eddie didn’t need his inhaler that often, and I…

I didn’t feel like I had to hide from him, ever.

[The murmurs grow curious once again. The Losers share a questioning look between one another.]

[Richie smiles almost apologetically now. He stands up from the stool and walks up to the edge of the stage, sitting down dead in the centre of it, legs crossed and elbows resting on his thighs. He’s shaking, visibly so, and his lips are trembling as he takes shallow breaths in through his mouth.]

So, I might be going slightly off script here, guys, so bear with me for a while longer.

[The Losers now share a _worried_ look, knowing that his Netflix Special could very well be cancelled for pulling a stunt like that during the recording of the show.]

If any of you were wondering about the reasoning behind the title of the special, this is the moment you’ve been waiting for! Hold your enthusiasm, it will be _much_ needed later.

Stanley was the best, most clever boy that I’ve ever met.

He was observant, more than we ever gave him credit for. It was easy for him to pick up on little things people would do, small gestures that were far more telling than any other loud shout or big display.

So, it was easy for him to find out the secret I was keeping from everyone else, Losers included.

And I found it just fitting, that I would reveal it to the public, during _his_ bit on this tribute show.

[Richie takes in a deep breath, and a few tears drop from his eyes, without warning. He brushes them away quickly, but not quick enough not to be noticed.

The crowd cheer in encouragement, including the Losers, and Richie feels almost crushed by his own emotions. “Come on Rich, you can do it. It’ll be okay!” He hears Stan’s voice in his ears, and smiles, finding it in himself to look back at the crowd.]

Stan… He said something in particular that hit close to home, in his letter.

“Be who you want to be. Be proud.”

Well, Stan, we’ll start from here.

[Richie takes another lengthy pause, and stands up, gathering up his courage once and for all.]

Truth is… I-I’m gay.

[The audience goes deadly silent for a full minute, in which Richie stops breathing, bracing himself for the booing, soda cans being thrown at him, the Losers leaving the theatre and abandoning him forever, and he wants to dig a hole and let it swallow him whole.

But then, Bill stands up, and starts clapping, followed by Mike, Ben, Beverly, and Eddie.

Soon enough, the whole theatre is up on their feet, clapping and cheering and shouting their support.

Richie’s eyes shoot up to the crowd, clearly taken aback, and his legs tremble violently for a moment, but he stands, albeit overwhelmed, tears falling down his eyes freely now.

He tucks his head down, trying to dry his tears on his arm, almost hiding behind the fabric of his blazer.

The crowd grows louder at that, start chanting their love for Richie, and it warms Richie’s heart.

“One more step, now, Rich.” Stan speaks in his mind. Richie drops his arms along his flanks, and breaths in deep, smiling gratefully at the crowd.]

Wow guys, uh… Not what I expected, honestly.

[The crowd slowly grows quieter, and they sit back down, smiling openly at Richie. He lets out a small nervous chuckle, drying the rest of his tears with the back of the hand still holding the mic.]

Feels good after forty years spent at the far back of a closet.

[The audience chuckles, wet and wobbly, but the smiles are still wide on their faces.]

I’ve been so scared my whole life, to even just think the word “gay”.

I grew up in Derry in the ‘80s, where even the slightest deviation from ‘normality’ was to be put down.

Saying it out loud would’ve gotten me killed, back there.

And deep down I knew the Losers would understand, but the fear of losing them, or getting them hurt because of my sexual orientation, was so strong I pushed that knowledge deep down, forcing it in the back of my mind, never letting it out.

And I thought I was doing a pretty good job, up until one day at the arcade.

I used to go play Street Fighter in the arcade for hours on end, when I was a kid.

One of these days, I was playing with another guy - who happened to be the cousin of the clown fuckhead that hunted us down in that period.

And I don’t know how exactly it happened, but I let myself slip, just the slightest hint of my big secret. Exactly in the moment where the big bad cousin stopped at the arcade with his gang.

[The audience gasps, tense. The Losers look at each other, the same shocked face expression showing on their faces. None of them knew.

Richie smiles, almost self-deprecating, and keeps going.]

I thought my life was over, that day.

And then, the asshole walks over to me, and starts singing this tune:

[Richie pitches his voice lower, a creepy edge to it, and imitates Pennywise’s voice as he sings]

“I know your secret, your dirty little secret! I know your secret, your dirty. Little. Secret!”

[Someone from the back of the crowd shouts indignantly, others gasp in pure shock. In the first row, a couple of 20-year-old girls hold each other’s hand tight, one of them has tears in her eyes.]

And guys, I was 13 years old, and my ‘dirty little secret’ had just been revealed in front of half of the kids in town, in the arcade, which used to be my safe place in some way.

So, when he screamed at me to get the fuck out - dropping the F slur for good measure - I did it.

I ran the fuck out of that place, with tears about to spill like two medium-sized waterfalls, and I felt lost. Alone. Dirty.

But then I thought to myself, “This was never my choice. Why should it matter who I’m in love with?”

And that was it.

So, in the only brave moment of my entire life, I biked my way over to a place known as the Kissing Bridge, on the opposite end of the town, where people usually went to hang locks and carve their initials as a sign of their “undying love”.

And I carved something myself, in there.

With the fear turning my guts into a fucking sailor’s knot, constantly looking over my shoulder and hoping to see none of those people’s faces, I carved the proof of my ‘deviance’, as a big “Fuck you” to that Hell Hole and all the scumbags living in it.

And then, came the panic.

I didn’t know where to go, and I would’ve rather gone back to that arcade and get beaten up by the bullies gang, than back to my house.

So, I did the only logical thing: I cycled my way to Stan’s house.

He took one look at me and his face _fell_.

[Some people in the audience let out some sad ‘ohws’, everyone seems touched by the story, one way or another. The Losers are looking at Richie with wide eyes. Eddie hasn’t stopped crying yet.]

[Richie sniffles a bit, his eyes go fond once again, lips tight as he pieces his memories together.]

He ushered me in his room, let me cry on his shoulder - didn’t even scrunch his face when I got his shirt all wrinkled and wet - and held me tight.

And I was scared to tell him what happened, fearing he would cast me out as well.

But Stan was the Man, and he knew well enough.

He held me tighter than he ever did, and he said this to me:

“One day - [Richie’s voice cracks. He clears his throat, and keeps talking.] One day, things will be better. One day, we’ll be far away from here, and we won’t have to watch our backs from these demons. One day, society will be different, and won’t care about people’s gender, race, religion, body image, or sexual orientation.”

[Richie looks up at the screen once again. He looks at Stan, at his fond smile while he hugged Richie tight to his chest, dimples on display and eyes crinkling at the corners. His smile is bittersweet, when he speaks again.]

“One day, you’ll love freely, without a care in the world. You’ll rant out the sappiest proposal speech ever written to your soulmate, and he’ll say yes, begging you not to be late at the altar. And I’ll be there, fixing your tie, and saying all the embarrassing thing you’ve done in your life at the dinner party, and dance with you afterwards. Always by your side, Rich. No matter what.”

[The audience is in tears once again, and so are Richie and the other Losers. Richie brushes the tears away, and smiles brightly at the crowd.]

Stan was always right, that was the dogma of our whole childhood.

And in that moment, I wanted so badly to believe him, and he _made_ me believe in every single one of his words.

Stan had that power, always had a way with words, no-one could ever compare to him.

So I told him. I puked out a string of words, and I’m not even sure half of them made sense, but Stan knew well enough, once again. He listened to everything I had to say, from my gay awakening to the carving in the Kissing Bridge, and he kept quiet, sometimes patting my back to encourage me to open up a bit more.

I asked him, tears in my eyes, if he really didn’t hate me for liking boys.

Stan smiled at me, and told me “Don’t let their words define you. You’re a Dirty Little Trashmouth, not just a dumbass with a Dirty Little Secret.”

[The audience coos at that, smiling through the tears. Richie smiles too, and grips the remote again, fidgeting with the object in his free hand.]

Stan could read me like an open book, and didn’t need me to tell him what I carved in the wood, that day. There was no need for me to do so. He probably knew even before I did myself.

[Richie grins at the crowd now. If he was going to lay everything on the table, he was gonna do it with a Tozier twist to it.]

Let’s see how good _you_ are at guessing, now.

[The audience starts murmuring excitedly, curious about the sudden shift in the atmosphere.]

What if I told you, that 13-year-old Richie was in love with one of the Losers?

[The crowd gasps, looking up at Richie’s nervous, but determined grin. He straightens up his spine from where he’s standing, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.]

You have three guesses! Come on, let’s see which of you motherfuckers covered his ears up until now!

[The audience chuckles delightedly. The Losers all stand there, deeply dumbfounded.

From the audience, there’s waves and waves of shouts of the Losers’ names.

Richie lets them go at it for a while, until someone screams “BEVERLY!”]

Dude! Seriously!?

I just fucking came out as a proud, 40-year-old, homosexual man, and your guess is _Beverly_!?

I give up. Fuck it.

Stan was right all along, when he mic-dropped at his bar-mitzvah. He was fucking right all along!

My God.

[The crowd laughs again, as Richie shakes his head, an amused laugh leaving his chapped lips.]

I see none of you got it right, chaps. Maybe those thirty years deep down in the closet did help me being less obvious.

[The audience chuckles again, and Richie seizes the moment to chance a glance at the middle row. He knows he’s very likely already lost the contract with Netflix, and therefore his career.

He just has to decide now. Risk it all or go home with another big secret?]

[Richie sighs again, slumps down against the stool once again, and presses the remote one more time. On the big screen, a picture of the Kissing Bridge appears.

The picture shows a wooden fence, and right in its middle, in big block letters, the carving ‘R+E’ appears, somehow standing prouder and brighter than any of the other carved initials, despite the complete lack of effects on the picture.

Richie doesn’t look at it right away, but neither looks at the middle row again, too scared to take _that_ risk just yet.]

Yup, guys.

Despite proclaiming his endless love for the big, fat, bone-chilling mother, 13-year-old Richie had eyes only for the little raging hypochondriac in red short shorts and fastened fanny pack.

[The audience goes wild once again, clapping and cheering as loud as physically possible.

Richie smiles, and it’s fond and longing like he’s never allowed himself to be in public. Especially, not with Eddie standing in the crowd, along with all the other Losers.]

That little piece of shit had me wrapped around his little finger. And I’m pretty sure he knew it, to some extent. He wouldn’t have been a pro at the sad puppy face otherwise.

[The crowd chuckles and giggles, endeared by this softer version of Richie, so much different from the coke-addict, sexist little jerk his agents made him into up until Mike’s call.]

We used to drive Staniel _mad_.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that Stan was a physical eye-roll.

[The audience chuckles louder, some of them still shedding a few tears from the picture itself.

Richie’s face turns serious once again, and the crowd grows silent again, waiting.]

Little Richie was so deeply in love, he was ready to get beaten to death for his Eds, and because we know by now that expressing his emotions in a healthy, functional way was never an option, little Richie decided to carve those feelings he barely even understood in the fucking Kissing Bridge.

Hoping one day, as little Eds walked down that road on his way back home, he’d see the big-ass carving, and maybe, just maybe, feel just as light-headed about it as little Richie felt every single time.

[Richie takes a shaky breath, turning around to look at the picture on the screen. His eyes are shining with a new sort of longing, and his eye-lids droop just a bit, voice lowering to a faint whisper into the microphone.]

Eddie, my love.

[The crowd coos at him, overwhelmed with the sweetness in Richie’s whole body language, the deep affection coming up in waves over the whole theatre.]

And maybe 40-year-old Richie was so ready to die for his Eds, _so ready_ , because a world without his Spaghetti Man would just not be worth living in.

And maybe, just maybe, 40-year-old Richie went back to the Kissing Bridge, while his Eds was still in the hospital, not awake yet, and maybe he re-carved the initials, hoping once his Eds woke up, he would have the courage to show him in person.

Because even after thirty odd years, Richie is still madly in love with that little turd.

But I’ve never been brave.

Eddie has always been the brave one, between us two.

And Stan _knew_ it.

[The audience is in deep shock, just like the Losers, still petrified on the spot. Eddie seems to be holding his breath since the guessing game started.]

[Richie’s smile falters a bit, before he looks at the crowd with an almost paternal fondness swirling in his eyes, bright and wide behind his glasses.]

I want to end on a high note here, guys, and I want you to treasure those words, just like I do.

“Be who you want to be. Be proud. And if you find someone worth holding onto… never, ever, let them go. Follow your own path. Wherever that takes you.

So… Be true. Be brave. Stand. Believe.

And don’t ever forget… Love is Love, and it’s only for the Brave.”

I’m glad you decided to give me a bit of your time, and I hope I made it worth the while.

And even if my career will end after this, I don’t care. I don’t want to be scared anymore.

A big thank you to the Losers, for being the best part of me, even when I had no memories of them.

Thank you to everyone who took their time to see this show, I appreciate every single one of you.

And thank you Stan, wherever you are right now, you've always been the best Loser, _and you’ll always fucking will be_.

[Richie blows a kiss into his index and middle finger, then raises them up in the air, arms stretched impossibly taut, eyes bright with fresh tears, and points at the sky above.

The crowd is on their feet instantly, clapping and stomping and making the whole venue shake with the sheer force of their support.]

[With his free hand behind his back, Richie presses the remote one last time.

On the big screen, a Polaroid of the complete Losers Club appears.

They’re sitting on a tree trunk fallen to the ground, in the woods around the Clubhouse.

They sit in a line, all smiling at each other, barely focusing on the camera.

From left to right, Beverly sits with her legs crossed on the trunk, a cigarette held loosely in one hand, head turned to Ben, as she laughs.

Ben is looking at Bev like she’s a goddess - which, again, she _is_ \- and shyly scratches his arm.

Mike and Bill hold an arm around one another, smiling towards the camera.

Stan smiles brightly towards his left, holding one of Bill’s hands in his own, resting gently in his lap.

Following Stan’s gaze, Richie is holding a giggling Eddie in his lap, sparing a star-struck gaze his way. Eddie has an arm thrown around Richie’s neck, the other bent over his own chest, wrapped in the white cast; on the latter, there’s s black writing spelling the word “LOSER”, with a big red “V” overlapping the letter “S”.]

[Richie lowers his arm, holds his gaze towards the ceiling as he whispers “Thanks for showing up, Stan.” He looks down at the picture, and then back at the crowd, smiling softly.]

You’ve been wonderful tonight, New York. Thank you!

[Richie puts the mic back on the stand, and backs away, as the lights dim just enough for him to become a shadow, and the softer Outro music starts playing.

The crowd is just about to quieten down, when he comes back on stage, leaning forward to speak directly in the mic.]

Oh, and one more thing…

[Everyone looks expectantly at him, still cheering.

Richie gives them his trademark smirk, eyes sparkling with mischief, and he opens his arms at them, despite being slouched forwards on the mic stand.]

“WELCOME TO THE LOSERS CLUB, ASSHOLES!”

[Richie finally walks backstage, still followed by an overwhelming wave of claps and shouts and cheers of approval, his agents looking at him with the most dumbfounded expression Richie has even seen on his face so far, coke-parties included.

The Losers all look at Eddie, who seems to have been in trance since the Kissing Bridge picture appeared.

Eddie doesn’t even wait for the crowd to start moving towards the exit, as he pushes his way through and leads the way towards the backstage, and they follow right after him.

As Beverly looks at the now empty stage, she smiles to herself.

“Thanks for showing up, at last, Stan.”]

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the author's corner! 
> 
> So, this work was born from a mixture of nicotine, a fuckton of Barry's tea, sleep deprivation, head-strong denial and poor life choices.
> 
> Inspired by MellytheHun's The 'Do Not Fucking Touch Me' Tour , because she's truly amazing and funny and her take on Richie is truly something else.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this little thing, and make sure to let me know what you think down below in the comments (:
> 
> Please, do not repost this anywhere without my consent. 
> 
> Come catch me on Tumblr @ am-amaterasu folks!
> 
> Love you long time,  
> amaterasu.


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